


Who Knows Love

by mistresscurvy



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Babyfic, F/M, Jossed, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistresscurvy/pseuds/mistresscurvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is there not a nursemaid?" Athelstan asked, confused. The baby squirmed a little in his arms.</p>
<p>The smile that broke across Ragnar's face gave him some warning, but not enough. "What do we need a nursemaid for when we have you?" And with that he crashed back into the bed with Lagertha, one arm wrapped firmly around her belly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Knows Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oliviacirce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacirce/gifts).



> AU post-episode 6. Thank you to mere and eleanor_lavish for the stellar beta jobs. ♥

When he was first taken, Athelstan had had two main hopes. The most vital goal was to stay true to God and not allow these heathens to destroy his faith. All else must follow after that. But almost as dear was the desire to avoid pain and suffering. Athelstan was not a stoic main. The pains and indignities of life were not experiences he relished; he could not think of them as an opportunity to display his devotion to God, as some monks did. He hoped that God could see his devotion was just as strong, though his flesh was weak.

His original, singular aim--escape and eventual return to his homeland--was discarded as pure folly from the moment he saw the ship. Usually he convinced himself that he had never truly imagined that it might be possible. It was easier that way.

The first unexpected wrinkle was that Ragnar and his family did not seem to intend to harm him. It was certainly true that Bjorn had made many creative threats against him and his person, and that the nature of Lagertha's retribution should he fail to protect her family was always perfectly clear (and bloody). But Athelstan worked hard to give them no provocation, and aside from the occasional cuff about the head (which always seemed more affectionate than anything else), they did not raise their hands against him. After a short time he began to wonder if they would truly harm him even if they had cause.

It might be reassuring to think that it was this unexpected mercy shown to him by his captors that caused the nature of his devotion to God to change, but that would be a lie. That change had happened even more gradually, as he began to witness the wonders of this world more clearly and vibrantly than he ever had in his monastery.

The moment he knew that his old priorities had been irrevocably replaced was when he watched Ragnar's body hit the water and then sink. There was no thought of survival, or of the fact that he and Lagertha and the children would surely be hunted down by the Earl's men. Saving Ragnar's life was not a pragmatic choice culled from careful thought. It was a decision arrived at solely because he did not want to see this man die.

After that, after the mad journey to Floki's home and the fervent prayer and the constant work of caring for Ragnar and his wounds, everything else was simply adding additional stones in building up this wall of truth. He had lost himself, and he did not care. Or rather, he suddenly cared so much and so intensely for these people that it obliterated all dissent. At this point, something so pedestrian, so primal as developing a physical relationship with his captors was almost unremarkable. 

Their invitations to Athelstan to join them had continued, always with the same easy, almost mocking edge. It was a ritual at this point, the offer extended to their slave that would be rebuffed as usual. He had the pleasure of surprising them for once, coming to their bed before they could invite him yet again as a formality. The enthusiasm of their response to him was anything but rote, however. 

He had already accepted his role in their lives, in this world; what was it to accept his place in their bed, given that?

That personal recognition did not in fact prepare him for watching Ragnar, who could barely walk without grimacing, fight for his life against the Earl. Nor did it make the revelation of how different his life would be as the slave of a newly-made earl any less unexpected. He had new clothing, free people readily acknowledged him now, and for the first time in his life he had an actual bed to sleep on. 

He spent most nights in with Ragnar and Lagertha though, his presence required even as Lagertha grew in her confinement. It startled him at first how great her need was while with child, but Ragnar assured him that this was as her first two had been. 

"Best not to refuse her, priest. She has quite the temper these days," Ragnar would say, pushing Athelstan to the big bed while slipping off to Athelstan's own to catch a few hours of undisturbed sleep. 

Athelstan was not sure how that was fair, but Lagertha's firm grip around his cock would always distract him from voicing any ill-advised complaints. 

As her time grew closer, her appetites decreased. She spent much of the days abed, and Athelstan's duties shifted to foot and back rubs. Ragnar left her in the large bed most evenings, furs piled up around her to support her as she slept, and he would come to Athelstan. There was not much in the world that did not make Ragnar amorous, Athelstan had discovered; fellow warriors who were restless to raid, a wife about to go through the labors of childbirth, new responsibilities for an entire village: all seemed to inspire Ragnar to bed Athelstan in increasingly inventive ways. 

Face first against a soft pillow, Ragnar's fingers digging into the small bruises he had left yesterday on Athelstan's hips, he could not begrudge his need. It was difficult to begrudge Ragnar much of anything given the pleasure he wrung out of Athelstan every night, his body alive and present in his arms. The first time Ragnar rolled over onto his belly, glancing back at Athelstan with an expectant look while spreading his legs, Athelstan had thought he might collapse.

"Surely you don't need me to tell you what to do. I've fucked you enough," Ragnar said casually, the arch in his back and heat in his eyes contrasting with the easy words. 

To his surprise, Athelstan found he didn't need Ragnar's instructions, at least not his words. Ragnar's body provided all the guidance he needed, responding to Athelstan's touch, making it clear exactly what he wanted. And when Athelstan finally pressed inside him for the first time, his body shaking as he tried to control himself, it was Ragnar's hand wrapped around the back of Athelstan's thigh, drawing him closer, that held him together. 

He knew that life would change again once the baby was born, that Lagertha would be busy with the newborn and that the ships couldn't wait for Ragnar and his family much longer. The raids would start again with the summer. But he did what he could now, providing comfort and distraction for each of them in turn.

The labor was foreign and terrifying to him. He had expected that he and Ragnar and Bjorn would be elsewhere during it, that Lagertha would closet herself with the midwives and emerge once the ordeal was done with a healthy babe, God willing. 

Instead, while he was in another room, it was one close enough to the birth to hear every moan, every scream from her. He almost wished he could be with them, certain that the reality could not be as bad as the torture his imagination conjured up. On the rare occasions when it was silent, his heart began to pound faster, his anxiety and worry rising up until her anguish and pain ripped out of her again. He did not want her to suffer, but the unknown was worse. 

The sun had set and then risen again by the time he heard the baby's first cry, tiny wails that shattered his heart. He watched the door as the faint cries grew louder, until finally Ragnar opened it, a wide smile on his exhausted face. There was a small bundle in his arms, the baby's head barely visible among all the furs, face still red and slippery. 

"Come meet my new son, priest," Ragnar said. A small sound escaped Athelstan's throat as he stepped forward to hold him for the first time. 

He weighed practically nothing, so tiny he seemed lost in his wrappings. Athelstan was almost afraid he was clutching him too tight, but he could not help but hold him so close to his chest. 

Finally tearing his eyes from the baby's face, he remembered something. "How is she?" he asked. 

Ragnar smiled. "Come see for yourself."

He knew from Ragnar's face, from how relaxed he was, that Lagertha must be fine, but his body still released a tension he did not know he had carried as soon as he saw her, pale but conscious. She smiled up at him. 

He had to clear his throat before speaking. "You have a beautiful son."

"I know," she said, her grin becoming smug. "Give him to me?"

It was harder than Athelstan could have ever expected to hand over the baby. The reason for her request became clear when Lagertha bared her breast to him and he latched on.

Abruptly Athelstan turned his head aside, sure he was not supposed to watch this. It was Ragnar's voice, low in his ear, that convinced him to look again.

"No, you should see this, priest. See how he is so easily made content."

Athelstan could see it, see the focus on the baby's face, one of Lagertha's fingers stroking across the soft skin of his cheek. They were beautiful together.

"What will you call him?" he asked softly, never taking his eyes off them.

"We will name him Eirik, after a good man cut down too soon," Ragnar said. He was pressed up against Athelstan's back, gazing at his wife and child over Athelstan's shoulder.

Lagertha looked up from Eirik. "He was my cousin, and a worthy namesake for my son."

Athelstan nodded. "It suits him."

Ragnar's laughter startled him. "He is just a babe, he needs to grow into such a name," he said, patting Athelstan on the hip. "But he will."

* * *

He expected that after the birth of Eirik, Ragnar and certainly Lagertha would be focused entirely on their new son, too busy for much else. And while he spent more time during the days with Bjorn and Gyda than he had been since Ragnar had become earl, he still spent a great deal of time with Ragnar and Lagertha. Especially at night.

It had been made quite clear to both Ragnar and Athelstan that if either of them attempted to touch Lagertha carnally at the moment, she would take an axe to them. Ragnar seemed to find this amusing, but Athelstan was positive that even after the stress and exhaustion of birthing, she could take him apart with one hand.

She still required his assistance though, his hands apparently skilled at head massages, and she handed Eirik off to him more frequently than he had expected. And Ragnar was prone to dragging Athelstan to bed with him most evenings, hands and mouth and cock making him cry out his pleasure until they both collapsed back in exhaustion.

One night six weeks after Eirik's birth, Athelstan was panting into his bed, his entire body still buzzing from the strength of his release, when Ragnar slapped him on his arm. "Come, get up and get dressed."

"What?" Athelstan asked even as he moved to obey. It wasn't the strangest request Ragnar had ever made of him.

Once Athelstan had pulled a tunic over his head, Ragnar tugged him out of the room, leading him to Lagertha. She was still awake, he saw, but Eirik was almost asleep in her arms.

"Ready?" Ragnar asked her. When she nodded, he gently took Eirik out of her arms and gave him to Athelstan.

"Go take him for the night, we need to sleep," he said, already climbing into bed next to Lagertha.

"Is there not a nursemaid?" Athelstan asked, confused. Eirik squirmed a little in his arms.

The smile that broke across Ragnar's face gave him some warning, but not enough. "What do we need a nursemaid for when we have you?" And with that he crashed back into the bed with Lagertha, one arm wrapped firmly around her belly.

He was up all night with Eirik. At first he thought he might lie on his back in the bed, the baby asleep on his chest. But Eirik began to cry as soon as Athelstan stopped rocking him, and it made no sense for neither of them to sleep. The sound of his sorrow was not something Athelstan could bear for long, in any event. 

So he spent the hours pacing back and forth in his room, bouncing him gently and telling him stories. He had started speaking in an attempt to put Eirik to sleep, his eyes slowly falling shut to the cadence of his voice, but soon it was a means of keeping himself awake.

Near dawn he finally gave in and collapsed next to the bed on the floor, shoulder braced against the wall as he dozed. He startled awake when Lagertha stepped into the room, Eirik already starting to fuss.

"You might try sleeping in the bed, not next to it, priest," she said, a bemused look on her face.

Athelstan attempted to find the words to explain, but his head was fuzzy and she had already plucked the baby from his arms and walked to the door by the time he could speak. "I didn't--"

"My husband wants to see you before breakfast," she interrupted, already walking down the hall.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he groaned and pushed himself up.

He found Ragnar already eating his meal, noting with an envious eye how well-rested Ragnar seemed.

"Sit down, priest, you look as though you might fall over any moment," he said, pushing a bowl of porridge over to him.

"Eirik was not easily calmed last night," he replied curtly, nerves already frayed from his sleepless night.

Ragnar nodded. "Which is why we'll need you to take him overnights."

Athelstan let his spoon fall with a clatter, all efforts at civility forgotten. "Why should I be up with him? What am I to him?"

"You have responsibilities to this family. My duties are elsewhere, and I can't be sleepwalking through them," Ragnar said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Not so easily placated, Athelstan pressed on. "Then find a wet nurse, and both of you can sleep."

"Lagertha prefers to nurse of her own body."

Heedless, Athelstan protested, "Then she should stay--"

It was too much. Slamming his hand down on the table, Ragnar stood up and glared at him. "She should do what? Exhaust herself by both feeding him and staying up all night? While I'm off raiding, or managing my men? What do you do that's so vital, priest?" He continued before Athelstan could attempt to interject anything in his defense. "Your chores here are limited; the other children do not need you as they once might have." He dropped back down into his seat, his anger receding as quickly as it had risen. "You may nap in the afternoons if you're so delicate."

After a moment, Athelstan picked his spoon back up and began to eat. Ragnar seemed to take his silence for the acceptance it was.

That night Ragnar tumbled them onto the bed, pinning Athelstan's hips to the bed as he took him deep. He worked his cock with long swallows, sucking lightly on his cockhead before engulfing him again. Of all the acts that Ragnar and Lagertha had taught him, this one still overwhelmed him, his own pleasure the only focus, the only thing that mattered.

He spilled his release down Ragnar's throat, a low moan muffled by both hands locked over his mouth. His entire body relaxed into his bed, limbs heavy as Ragnar flipped him onto his belly and pressed inside him.

It was a leisurely fuck, Ragnar almost gentle with him in a way he rarely was with Lagertha, who never let them forget how formidable a partner she was. His hips thrust against him steadily, cock sliding in and out as he sank his teeth into Athelstan's shoulder, just holding him still. Athelstan rode it, the pleasure sparking through his body, hands pressed against the bed by Ragnar's.

The world was hazy as Ragnar reached his completion inside him, Athelstan's body limp and sated when Ragnar pulled out, kissing over the bruise that must now be on his shoulder.

Athelstan thought he had to have misheard him when Ragnar said, "Time to get Eirik."

He rolled over, still filthy and half-asleep. "Right now?"

Ragnar responded by throwing a tunic at his face.

When he stumbled into their bedroom, Lagertha looked nearly asleep, but Eirik was wide awake. His blue eyes, still slightly cloudy but beginning to clear, the color bright and familiar, focused on Athelstan. Even in his exhaustion, he could not look away from the baby's face, or resist smiling at him. 

No good would come of simply standing there and staring at Eirik, so he picked him up and walked back to his room, bouncing him gently as he went. The key was to find a way for Eirik _and_ Athelstan to sleep. Surely he could outthink an infant.

This challenge might have been easier were he not already exhausted, but he'd faced steeper climbs in his past.

The first step was seeing what calmed Eirik best. Athelstan hasn't been around a child this small in many years, but he had had a younger brother before he was sent away and remembered his mother's efforts to sooth him. Eirik seemed perfectly happy as long as he was bounced, eyes drifting closed before snapping open the second he stopped moving.

"That won't work," Athelstan said, watching as Eirik's eyes slipped shut a little when he spoke.

He began to hum a little under his breath, expanding the sound to a low chant when Eirik felt even heavier in his arms, body nestled against his chest. It was a prayer he had led many times at the monastery, the rhythmic melody coming back after months of neglect. 

When he reached the end he simply started again, daring to sit down on the edge of the bed. He continued to sway as he chanted, but beyond that did not move. Eirik yawned once, looking as though he might protest before his eyes finally closed, long lashes shadowing his checks. Athelstan did not risk stopping his song, even as he lowered himself onto the bed until he was prone, Eirik's breath puffing against his neck on every exhale.

It was more difficult to sing like this, the weight of the baby heavy on his chest. But he would not move, even as each repeat grew more and more quiet.

By the time he fell asleep, Athelstan wasn't sure which of them had needed the song more.

* * *

When Eirik started to fuss and then cry, his little body squirming in Athelstan's arms, he was sure it had only been a few minutes rather than hours. But the sun was breaking through, and he would accept this. It had only been the first night.

"Time to find your mother," he said, swinging himself and Eirik up off of the bed. Eirik quieted down as soon as they were moving again, and he took his time finding Lagertha, not quite ready to give Eirik up. The chant flowed through his mind again, the words themselves coming into clearer focus in the morning, and he realized that last night was the first time he had not sung that song for God. 

Perhaps it had been for a more important cause. 

Once it became clear Eirik only wanted his mother and her milk, Athelstan hurried to find her. He did not feel quite so exhausted as he did yesterday, and he felt he could survive this after all.

He did steal off that afternoon to rest for a bit in his bed, feeling illicit and lazy both. But he had been listing on his feet, and Lagertha had taken notice.

"Go lie down, priest," she said, cupping his elbow.

"No, I am quite well," he protested.

She stared at him, unperturbed. "That wasn't a request," she said, smirking at him.

The nap left him feeling even more exhausted though, his dreams chasing one another. It had been a relief to sink into the bed at first, but he awoke disoriented and too hot, sweat sticking to his skin. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he got back up.

That evening he was more successful with Eirik, the baby already sleepy after his final feeding of the night. His eyes started to droop the moment Athelstan began to sing, and he would have felt more smugly proud if he hasn't been so relieved. They would both sleep tonight.

He found that now, even when someone else was holding Eirik, he could not help but watch him, marveling at how he changed during each passing week. Bjorn still found his little brother unworthy of much attention, but Gyda was the first person to make him laugh, hiding her face behind her thick braid and then revealing it to him. 

It was impossible to not smile back at such a face, to not marvel at the perfection therein. He had thought, fleetingly, during Lagertha's confinement that it would be a moral failing to not baptize at least this child out of all of them, who would only be touched with original sin, not yet exposed to the pagan ways of his people. But the idea that this child was somehow flawed or in need of saving was so repugnant, so counter to everything he saw in Eirik, that he could not bear to think of it. 

There could be no Hell waiting for this child. 

Lagertha continued to care for him most during the day, with Ragnar helping whenever he wasn't off raiding in the summer sun. Now that both Athelstan and Eirik were able to sleep, he didn't mind having him at night. There was something soothing about holding him, keeping him safe and happy. Occasionally his cries would grow too desperate, clearly needing his mother, and he would bring him back to Ragnar and Lagertha. 

The first time that happened, he had worried that Ragnar would be displeased with him. But he merely drew Athelstan onto the bed with them, and held him as they watched Eirik nurse. "Sometimes only his mother will do," he said into Athelstan's ear, the bed cosy and warm with all of them in it. 

Most nights Eirik slept well though, as Athelstan dug deeper into his musical repertoire to coax him to sleep. He had found that there were only so many times he could chant the same tune, no matter how often he had sung it in his old life.

He started singing through the sagas that Floki had told during Ragnar's recovery the previous winter. Some of the tales were suited more for a warrior than a baby, but Eirik couldn't understand them anyway, and he would be a warrior himself someday. It was hard to imagine it now, his soft head heavy on Athelstan's shoulder, his scent of milk sweet and familiar. But given his parentage, Athelstan did not doubt that he would be a formidable fighter. 

When even those new tales began to grow old to him, he reached deeper back to the memories of his mother singing. His old tongue had become harder to speak; he dreamed in Norse now, and the old familiar language felt strange in his mouth. It was still easy to recall the words of his mother's lullaby for her children though. 

_Who knows love?_  
Who says he knows love?  
What is love, tell me 

_"I know love,"_  
Says the littlest one.  
"Love is like a tall oak tree." 

_"Why is love a tall oak tree?  
Little one tell me."_

_"Love is a tree_  
For the shelter it gives  
In sunshine or in storm." 

Eirik seemed to like all of his songs, but Athelstan pressed each word of his mother's lullaby into his forehead like a kiss as he sang them both to sleep. 

Ragnar responded to Athelstan's success at coaxing Eirik to sleep through the night in characteristic fashion. "Since you are so good with him, you should spend more time with him during the days as well," he said, waving off Athelstan's token protests immediately. "You are with Lagertha much of the time anyway, and he likes you."

Athelstan couldn't argue with that. 

His days were full, busier than he could have ever imagined back in Lindisfarne. There was always more work to be done than there were hours in the day, it seemed, and never more so than when Ragnar and the men were off on the boats. His dual role as counselor to Lagertha warred with his need and his desire to watch over Eirik; he did not know how she managed it. Ragnar's presence was missed for many reasons when he was away, his safe return always a cause for celebrations and relief. 

One of the women cornered him one day while he was holding Eirik and trying to eat at the same time. She showed him how to wrap the baby against his chest so his arms would be free. It was both useful and made him feel even more out of place, a man performing a woman's role. But when he watched Lagertha training Bjorn, besting her son over and over again to make him stronger, he could not feel wanting. 

Eirik began to fuss against his chest. His eyes still on the battle between mother and son, he sang softly to him. 

_Who knows love?_  
Who says he knows love?  
What is love, tell me 

_"I know love,"_  
Says the littlest one.  
"Love is like a flower." 

_"Why is love a flower?  
Little one tell me."_

_"Love is a flower_  
For the sweetness it gives  
Before it dies away." 

"What are you singing?" Ragnar asked from behind him. 

Athelstan startled, one hand coming up to sooth Eirik back into an easy sleep. "A song my mother sang for me."

"Ah." Ragnar looked at him, and then at Eirik asleep in his arms. He cupped one hand around his son's head and asked, "Teach it to me?"

Athelstan smiled. "I can try." And he began to sing.

**Author's Note:**

> Both the title and the poem in the story are by Guy Gavriel Kay, a wonderful writer I can't recommend enough.


End file.
